


A Meeting

by Hancockles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Creepy Fluff, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the friendliest Yharnamite you've met so far -- but that, in itself, seems cause for suspicion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Meeting

Did you think, even for a moment, that Alfred would be good?

The Executioners, the Vilebloods, even a hunter of hunters… these factions are wholly unfamiliar to you, and cement further your status of being an outsider. You are treading dangerous and inhospitable ground. (To say nothing of the beasts, of course, which are lifted from the very nightmares of man.)

The first time you meet him, you are resting at a stream. Hoping to wash some of the viscera from your clothing, you strip down to the waist and engross yourself in your task. The blood flows downstream and disappears. There. Another reminder of this terrible night, gone. You are cold in the dusk air, but satisfied.

A twig snaps behind you, and before you jolt in fear you think, bitterly, that you can count the peaceful minutes on one hand. On your feet now, your heart is pounding. You unsheathe your knife and whirl around, expecting any manner of misshapen thing. Only a man greets you, one with gentle eyes and (you almost laugh at yourself for thinking this) perhaps the softest hair you’ve seen. Having been in Yharnam for a scant amount of time, you don’t recognize his garb. White cloth of high quality, impressive weaving on the edges. He sees your trembling hand and he holds his own hands up in a gesture of peace. 

“Now, I don’t think that would be such a good idea,” he says, and though he’s smiling he says it carefully. You can see no ill intentions on his face, an assessment you later recognize as woefully incorrect. But, now, you think, how crazed you must look: naked to the waist, dripping with blood and dirty water, holding a rusted knife with a shaking hand!

“I don’t want any trouble,” you say, speaking equally as carefully. You try to steady your hand, but the sight of his eyes sets you shaking again. It’s difficult to say why. 

“Nor I,” he says. His eyes flick to your weapon, then back to your face. “If you’d like, I have an extra you could take. It won’t do to have a piece of metal as pitiful as that.”

He reaches into his pocket, and you jump, thrusting your blade towards him a few inches more, tensing your body.

“No tricks!” You say, voice trembling now as your knife is.

There is a moment of rest, a deliberate pause, and he looks at you until you’ve fallen back a bit. Making a great show of taking careful movements, he produces a small blade from his pocket, similar enough to the one you already have in your possession. He turns it so as to grip the sheath himself, and so the handle is facing you. 

“Please,” he says. “Take it.”

There’s a kindness in your eyes that’s hard to ignore. Carefully, carefully, you extend your hand and grip the offering’s handle. He lets go of the sheath and steps backward, giving you space, watching as you examine the gift. The blade is high quality and has a pleasing sheen. Engraved on the handle is a symbol you don’t readily recognize, but there’s no reason to fuss over that. After all, a gifted blade will do much better than your hand-me-down antique. You look at him, and he is smiling.

“We hunters have to look out for each other,” is all he says. And he moves on.

****

The second encounter, you come upon him. Picking your way through the densely wooded edge of Yharnam, hoping to find some shelter for the night, you spot a bright shape in the darkness of the trees. Thinking it a beast, you stow yourself behind the nearest tree, and hold your breath. Glancing around the trunk, you observe the shape further, and you see that it is eating. The quantity of the meal is impressive, and the resulting carnage creates a knot in your chest. Blood has spattered the ground all around the figure. Squinting, you see that this figure is human. 

You turn your body and lean forward so as to get a better look, steadying yourself with a hand on the trunk of the tree. Clearly now, you see that Alfred is the sitting figure. Your guard relaxes and you make your way over to him, thinking perhaps to share a much-needed meal.

He’s positioned himself on a fallen log. With sharp teeth, he tears into some meaty thing, the juices spilling down his chin. Blood dots the white cloth of his pants, and you think it a shame to see it soiled.

“Alfred,” you say, softly, so as not to startle him. It takes him a moment to register the sound of your voice, but he turns, and smiles. The edges of his mouth are covered with blood.

“Hello there,” he says mildly.

“What is that?” you ask. Some of the hunger in your stomach abates when he takes too long to reply. The shape of the meat is unfamiliar to you. The texture seems foreign. And the smell – the smell is one you’ve experienced before. You don’t remember when, but you’re sure it was experienced under unpleasant circumstances.

“Alfred?” you say, waiting.

He stops, and lets some of the meat drop from between his fingers. His hands are extraordinarily bloody, all the way up to the elbow. 

“Ah, well,” he says, eyes working their way up the line of your body. “Waste not, want not. Yes?”

Though the question means to be open-ended, you feel as though you cannot disagree. You nod, and make your way further into the forest, leaving him and his dubious meal behind.

****

And, since your time in Yharnam, what has surprised you more than the third encounter with him? What sights have you seen that could possibly shock you more? 

Alfred prays at the site of a monument unknown to you. A tall, stern figure, draped in heavy cloth, pointed helmet covering their head and face. Before you say a word, Alfred rises, dusts himself off, turns to face you.

“I am an Executioner first,” he begins. “And a hunter second. Both roles call for the extermination of certain… tarnished beings.”

“I understand,” you say. And you mean it.

His eyes drop to your feet, then make their way up your body. His gaze is careful, as though he’s searching for defects. Feeling the weight of that gaze, you shift.

“Then you understand why I must confirm the fact of your humanity,” he says plainly.

“This I don’t understand,” you say, carefully. He takes a step toward you.

“People begin to act strangely before they turn. Strangely, indeed,” he says.

“You think me strange?” 

“Strangely, indeed,” he repeats, as though he hadn’t heard you. He has advanced a few paces more and stands in front of you, regarding your body with an almost scholarly eye. His gaze weighs heavily on you.

He presses his hand against your pale throat and brings his knee forward, resting it on the wall between your legs, pinning you. He is a solid man, muscle and fat; you recognize in an instant that you won’t be leaving unless he allows you to.

“Now,” he says. “Let’s see.”

He lifts a finger and runs it along your lips, the top and then the bottom, the tip of his finger calloused and warm. He stops at the corner of your mouth and applies a gentle, firm pressure, as though testing food for doneness. Maybe it’s the spike of dread you feel, or the warm, constant press of his body, or that something deep within you wants to please him, but you open your mouth, just enough for him to slip his finger in. He pulls down your lower lip, not enough to hurt, to get a better look at your teeth. His eyebrows quirk.

“Not as bad as it could be,” he says. And then, “ah,” and you become aware of how hard you’re salivating. He runs a finger over the points of your canine teeth, then over your tongue. 

You purse your lips and draw his finger deeper into your mouth, as though controlled by some other force, and taste the musk and dirt of him. Alfred tenses, holds his breath. You feel yourself moan. A flame is lit inside you, and a deep hunger gnaws your insides. Alfred’s thighs tense tightly; you feel it under you. He removes his finger and releases some of the pressure from your neck.

“Well?” you ask. “Am I turning into a beast?” 

Alfred grabs you by the collar and pulls you close, kissing you full on the mouth. You make a sound of surprise, or pleasure, and Alfred deepens the kiss, tongue in your mouth, searching, wanting. His hands fan out to your shoulders and he presses you against the wall, presses his body against you. When he releases you from the kiss, you are breathless. 

“Truly beastly,” he mutters, “That mouth.”

He steps away from you, gives you some breathing room, but all you can think is that you preferred the hot weight of him against you. He looks about him, almost frantically, as though he fears being discovered.  
“Now,” he says, urgently. “Now listen to me.” He brushes his fingers against your cheek, and keeps them moving toward the back of your head. Soon, he has a handful of your hair and is pulling, hard.

“Now,” he repeats. “Be a good little thing and do as I say.”

His other hand moves to your shoulder. He pushes you down to your knees, a direction you go willingly. His cock is hard beneath the thick fabric of his uniform. Before he gives you instruction, you lean forward and kiss it, put your mouth around the outline of it, tease and tongue him deeply. He shudders and moans, tightening his grip on your hair. You can feel the heat of him through the fabric.

Your head swims and you feel as though you have lost control of yourself. Your hands undo the clasp on his pants and pull his dick free. He holds his breath in the moments before you lean forward and take the throbbing cock into your mouth, no orders from him required. His sounds are small, anguished and throaty. His thick muscles tense as you bob in and out, tongue lapping over ridges and veins. His pleasure is your own, and it is a warm feeling deep in your belly.

“Good girl,” he says, barely above a whisper. You moan and he throws his head back, bucking his hips forward. Grabbing his buttocks, you pull him deeper into your mouth until the tip touches the back of your throat and you feel the wet of his precome. As though his body is your own, you feel pressure mounting and quicken your pace, pushing and pulling. 

Alfred says your name, and in his mouth it sounds like a prayer. He comes with a shudder, hot cum releasing in thick spurts down your throat. The taste – you think to yourself that you want more. Alfred releases his grip on your hair and pushes his own hair out of his face, away from his sweat-moistened forehead.

“Am I cured?” you ask, though you’re sure you aren’t a beast. These questions, these desires, this night – it all seems like some kind of dream.

Alfred looks at you with his deep green eyes, holds your gaze, and goes about rearranging himself. He is surprisingly casual, considering what just happened, and considering the come he’s stained your face with.

“It can be worked on,” he says simply.


End file.
